


Like Lightning

by stormwalkers



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Almost Kiss, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, They're getting there, post-TEG, the kids are awkward and filled with love, they're really trying ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwalkers/pseuds/stormwalkers
Summary: I’d made the wrong call, and it was my fault. In that moment, I’d felt fourteen years old again, messing up like an amateur. So I was spending the morning in my room, attempting to relax. What I needed now was another shower (or five), something to eat, and not looking Lockwood in the eye for the next, say, hundred years.A knock on my door. “Luce? Are you in there?"So much for that.A stupid case leads to a conversation.
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 31
Kudos: 119





	Like Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Achilles Angst, the bestest beta reader I could ask for. His continued willingness to have midnight screaming sessions about Locklyle keeps me going.
> 
> This little story was inspired by art from the iconic [Rachele Raka!](https://doodlingraka.tumblr.com/post/634116992039895040/the-way-you-draw-lockwood-made-me-love-him-even) Our brains melded together and produced similar things at the same time. Happy to do it again anytime, Raka.

The case had been so simple.

Really, it had. A shipyard in Chiswick. A haunted barge. A nasty, murderous Raw-bones. You know, the works. A eleven-year-old agent could have done it—before they’d turned _ten_. And the Source? A ruined torpedo from a war-era naval battle… which I had completely disregarded during my rounds, attributing its droning psychic hum to a nearby submarine part. Surprise, surprise: I should have listened more carefully to George’s sermon on underwater warfare. I won’t go into detail about the consequences of my mistake, but in short, it ended with all five members of Lockwood & Co. drenched in a mixture of marine fuel, engine sludge, and shockingly brown water. My skirt had been soiled with frankly undignified stains, my boots squelching as if repeatedly stepping in sheep innards. The ghost itself had been no less repulsive, all bloodied flesh and grinning teeth.

It was times like those I sorely missed the skull’s counsel, the whispered words of advice between wisecracks and unpleasantries. Since the Fittes House affair a few weeks earlier, the closest thing I’d seen to its ghastly green glow inside my backpack was when George discovered a week-old pickle sandwich forgotten at the bottom of his duffel bag.

But the skull wasn't around anymore. I’d made the wrong call, and it was my fault. In that moment, I’d felt fourteen years old again, messing up like an amateur. So I was spending the morning in my room, attempting to relax. What I needed now was another shower (or five), something to eat, and not looking Lockwood in the eye for the next, say, hundred years.

A knock on my door. “Luce? Are you in there?”

So much for that. I straightened, clearing my throat. “Yes. Come in.”

My attic door was the only entryway in the house Lockwood had to stoop to go through. My heart always warmed to see it, on the rare occasions he’d enter my domain. He was in shirtsleeves today, his pale forearms bare, tie hanging loose by the rumpled collar. That made me feel warmer still.

Anyway, he came in.

“Hi,” I said with a half-hearted smile.

Lockwood joined me by the window, resting his slender arms on the sill. By the magic of whatever products he used, his dark hair had been mostly freed of ship oil. I was fairly certain mine was still a waxy mess. “How are you doing?” he asked. “Alright?”

“Fine. Bruised and tired, but fine.”

“So,” he continued. “That Raw-bones.”

“I know.” I sighed, cheeks flushing. “Just say it. I ought to have my Fourth Grade qualifications revoked.”

“But Luce, you never completed the Fourth Grade.”

 _“Exactly,”_ I cried. My face felt searingly hot and was probably turning an equally scalding shade of red. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be this top agent, Lockwood, and I’m still making rookie mistakes.”

“Call me crazy,” said Lockwood, “but I think you’ve proven yourself enough that you don’t need to fill out that multiple-choice test on Source disposal and rapier safety. At least Raw-bones are such nasty buggers, it makes them all the more satisfying to take out. That was a clean apprehension, when we finally got him.”

“There’s that, at least.”

“And for what it’s worth,”—he gave me a fond, lopsided smile—“I have serious problems staying cross with you. Always have.”

I groaned, going somehow redder than before. If I looked into Lockwood’s eyes now, I might spontaneously combust, so I pawed up the sleeves of my jumper and buried my face in my hands.

“Lucy,” he said, taking a tentative step closer to me. “Hey. It’s alright.” He leaned down so that our faces were almost level, then gently peeled my hands away. He held my forearms, fingers coming up to meet mine. “Please. I like seeing your face.”

Was _Lockwood_ blushing now? We looked at each other, our hands frozen in space, little fingers locked together like linked fish hooks. His scent was everywhere. I cleared my throat unprettily. “It was a stupid case.”

“It was a very stupid case,” he agreed.

I sighed. “I just hate messing up.”

“I know you do, Luce.”

“I _hate_ it, Lockwood.” My fingers pushed at his.

“Yes.” He caught them, playfully nudging my wrists back. “But it’s over.”

I had to admit it; Lockwood’s presence was evaporating my bad mood like a Visitor at sunrise, his smile working some serious magic. I gave him a quizzical grin, prodding at him again. “Is it, now?”

Our hands were soon engaged in an all-out war, teasing each other back and forth, his dwarfing mine; finally, I caught his fingers triumphantly between my own. They were long and elegant, yet visibly hardened, fitting with mine as if woven together, as if designed to meet.

My heart did a flip. We’d been laughing, but now a momentous silence fell between us.

Silence…

Lockwood broke it. “I’d like to do something,” he said, his voice impossibly soft. “But I’m scared it’ll ruin things.”

“Ruin things how, exactly?” I asked. My heart sped up; next to it, my necklace weighed heavily.

“I’m… not entirely sure.” His eyes flicked to the sapphire at my throat, and all my reservations melted. We were alone in my room. It would be so easy. I could tell he wanted to, badly.

“What if it didn’t?” I spoke slowly, carefully. “Ruin things, I mean. What if we just… agreed it wouldn’t?”

“Can you do that?” An awkward smile.

I attempted a casual shrug, but it probably came across as some kind of nervous contraction. Lockwood was still holding my hands. It was as if we both knew moving them would initiate something from which there would be no turning back.

We gazed at each other; time did strange things, simultaneously freezing around us and whirling like lightning. Everything in me begged to be closer to him. There was so much I wanted to say to him, questions I’d never dared to ask, things I’d never had the courage to confess. Had the moment finally come? Not for the first time in my life, I wished I could read Lockwood’s thoughts.

Our eyes were locked. My heart thumped. The front wisps of his fringe brushed my forehead…

My breath caught in my throat. “Lock—“

Suddenly, a creak at the door; a voice. “Lucy, whatever was in that oil spill during the Chiswick case, it’s going to take at least two more washes to get it off your blue skirt, and I _don’t_ think it’s ecto—“

A huge, heaping laundry basket with a pair of arms about it appeared in the doorway; somewhere beneath it was Holly.

As the three of us stared back and forth between each other, I became aware of three facts: Lockwood’s fingers were tangled up with mine, our eyes had just been locked onto each other as if trying to take root, and we were standing close enough to share a breath. Close enough for a great many things.

A muteness fell over the room; the laundry basket wobbled in Holly’s arms.

Finally, she clicked her tongue. “I’ll just be…”—her eyes flickered back to the door—“…go. _Going_. Sorry! Carry on.”

She spun around and was gone, manoeuvring the basket quite expertly through the door considering her sudden haste.

As the door fell shut, an awkwardness suffused the room. We let go of each other, scrambled for appropriate places to put our hands. Lockwood cleared his throat. “Well…”

“So…” I tried for a lighthearted Ha Ha, Oh Well laugh, but it sounded more like the wheeze of an old dog that had dropped its toy somewhere unreachable. I brushed my hair behind my ears.

“That tends to happen, doesn’t it?” Lockwood was rubbing at his wrist, hands moving far less gracefully than usual. I could see the small hairs on his forearms, the slender curves of his elbows.

“It seems that way,” I said with forced cheer. “Though having Holly turn up with the washing would be preferable to…”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Absolutely.”

We smiled at each other, remembering the last time a significant moment between us had been interrupted. Yes, Holly with the laundry _was_ to be preferred over hardened criminals with guns and knives—but still.

My hand instinctively went to my necklace. Despite the initial interruption, Lockwood _had_ given it to me in the end. Eventually…

We gazed at each other. Silence weighed down the air, like those loaded moments before an apparition appears. Only my heart wasn’t beating from stress or unease; in fact, it was the opposite. Gathering courage from somewhere deep and unknown inside me, I reached out again, and Lockwood’s fingertips met mine, and—

“…finally getting on with it!”

“They’re what? Hol—“

“Shh. Don’t you dare go in, George.”

“I don’t care if they’re mud wrestling in there, the Chiswick report needs Lockwood’s signature.”

You didn’t need to be a Listener to hear them; Holly was attempting a hushed tone, but George obviously wasn’t getting it. Even muffled by the door, we could hear his objections clearly.

“Can’t it wait?” Holly went on.

“I am not taking two trips to the post office because I had to wait for Lucy and Lockwood to finish fooling about with each other’s—Lucy, Lockwood! Hello.”

The spell between us being irretrievably broken, Lockwood had turned the doorknob to reveal our friends. The two of us stared at the two of them; Holly was still holding the laundry basket, and George carried a stack of messily sorted papers. Silence extended itself like a stretch of rope between two falling buildings.

“George!” said Lockwood finally, his voice uncharacteristically shrill. “Holly. Hello. Did you need something?”

George and Holly glanced between us as we tried our best to look innocent. Innocent of what, though? We hadn’t been doing anything. Nothing had _happened_. What did George suppose had happened? What had Holly said to him?

I coughed. “He was just—“

“I was just—“

Lockwood and I paused. My face burned, and his ears looked ready to ignite.

“I was just checking on Luce here,” he went on, “after last night. That was quite a job, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, somehow incredibly unconvincingly even though it was the truth.

George’s amusement was as obvious as a finger scoop in a bowl of frosting. “I would say there’re double standards at work here,” he said, “but I don’t think I’d like to be checked up on quite _that_ thoroughly.”

Lockwood’s ears were now threatening to set his hair aflame; I brushed imaginary lint off my skirt. “Well,” I said then, clearing my throat, “I _was_ about to take a shower.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lockwood, a bit too loudly. “Is that the Chiswick case report, George? Very good. I’ll sign it now.” He plucked the papers from George’s hands and made toward the stairs before turning around. “Luce…”

I looked at him. “Yes?”

“I’ll—see you later.”

I smiled. “See you.”

He turned and was gone; George was fast on his heels, wearing his widest smirk. Holly awkwardly deposited her basket by my door, gave my arm a quick squeeze, and then she disappeared as well.

I leaned back against the doorframe, giving a sigh. But there was a small, sharp happiness inside me, warming my belly and pressing on my heart. I flexed my fingers, remembering how Lockwood had held them, folded them between his own; how he’d smiled, the grin I knew was reserved just for me.

_Please. I like seeing your face._

As I went to take my shower (the third one that day), I smiled to myself. That small, sharp happiness stayed with me all day long.


End file.
